


Mother Russia

by therhythmsection



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-17 12:32:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14832320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therhythmsection/pseuds/therhythmsection
Summary: What if Canada's sweethearts aren't actually Canadian at all? An AU set during the Cold War (aka Tessa and Scott are Russian spies)





	1. Moscow, 1971

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. Got the idea for this story in my head while finishing up the last season of "The Americans" over the last few weeks and couldn't get it out of my head.
> 
> This requires some mental gymnastics to imagine the entire real-life timeline of Tessa and Scott taking place between 1971 - 1988. I'll be ignoring the reality of the 1984 and 1988 Olympics - Torville and Dean do not exist in this universe, sorry y'all.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not even remotely an expert on Cold War/the USSR so please forgive me for any historical inaccuracies.

“First position, begin your _plies_. Alina, fix that turnout. 5, 6, 7, 8, second position. Yulia, tuck your tailbone, and don’t make me remind you again.”

Olga slipped quietly into the room, eyes sweeping the girls lined up at the ballet barre, all sporting the same black leotard, hair swept in identically perfect low buns. The door had made the smallest hint of a creak as it swung close, unnoticed by every girl but one: toward the far end of the barre, Olga caught a pair of green eyes flicker toward her.

“Tatiana,” warned the instructor, and the girl’s eyes focused intently on the blond bun of the dancer in front of her once again. As the students transitioned into _tendus,_ Olga quietly settled into the corner next to the cassette player to observe them. The instructor made one more pass down the barre and crossed the room to join her.

“They’re well-trained,” Olga remarked, as the girls silently moved through their exercises in perfect time with the music. The instructor’s lips curved upward almost imperceptibly, just for a moment. Despite all the changes, the consistency of operations at the country’s preeminent ballet company had not wavered. She took the responsibility of training Russia’s next great dancers seriously. Recently, though, she had been asked to consider whether any of her girls would be a good fit for an entirely different kind of training. “Do you have a recommendation?” The question was met with silence as the instructor avoided Olga’s gaze and stared straight ahead at her students, now tracing half-circles on the floor with their pointed toes.

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” the instructor whispered.

“What about the auburn-haired one, hm? Second from the right, with the green eyes.”

“Why?” asked the instructor, trying to keep panic from setting into her voice.

“I just feel she has the right instincts. She’s perceptive.” Olga had known the moment she entered the room that this girl was her only hope this cycle. She had been the sole child to notice any change in her surroundings when the door had opened. Storytelling and manipulation can be taught, but Olga firmly believed that only those with an innate talent for observation could handle this job. “Is there anything else I should know about her?”  
  
The instructor glanced ahead resolutely, refusing to make eye contact with Olga. “She skates, too. But she’ll have to make a choice soon. Any time she spends on the ice will interfere with her ballet training”

When the music began to fade away, she clapped twice, sharply.  “Center, girls,” she instructed, and the students departed the barre and formed neat, perfectly spaced lines in front of the mirror.

As the music began again, Olga’s eyes fixated on the small auburn-haired girl as she worked through a series of pirouettes. Her turns were controlled and graceful; the music flowed through her fingertips as she extended her arms overhead.

“Her name?” Olga inquired, her hands rooting through her bag for a pen. The instructor closed her eyes and swallowed, hard.

“Tatiana.”

* * *

 

The whistle pierced the air in the arena, bringing the rambunctious gaggle of boys on skates to a screeching halt.

“We’ll take a ten minute break, then line up for shooting practice. Vladimir and Mikhail, I want you to start in the goal.”

The boys skated over to the boards, pushing off their helmets for a few minutes’ relief from the sweaty, damp constriction on their faces. The coach followed, putting on his skate guards and approaching a woman sitting high up in the stands, almost entirely obscured by shadows.

“My colleague tells me you had a successful meeting at the Ballet Academy last week?” he asked by way of greeting and taking the seat next to her.

Olga allowed herself a small smile. “Indeed. A lovely young girl, aged 7. Studies both ballet and ice skating. It would be a simple transition for her to train in ice dance full-time.” Below them, the boys engaged in horseplay by the boards, fully taking advantage of the break and their coach’s distance in the stands. One boy had separated himself from the flying mass of skate blades and hockey sticks, and was stroking gracefully around the perimeter of the ice. “It looks like Sergei is keeping up well with his skating regimen.”

The coach nodded, looking pleased. “His aunt is an excellent coach, has been pairing him up with different girls the past few months. I think he and this ballerina will form a natural partnership”  
  
“Does he understand the stakes?” Olga wonders aloud, gazing at the flags hung around the arena.

“He’s a patriot. He loves his country. He’ll want to help any way he can. Even at age 9, a boy can understand that”  
  
“Some at the Centre scoff at putting this kind of effort effort into the cultural side of the war, but you cannot deny the effect that sporting rivalry can have. We’re well poised to sit atop the hockey and figure skating podiums in Sapporo in a few months’ time. International competitions like the Olympics provide a tangible way for the public to measure who’s winning, more so than any other facet of the war. If we want that effect to continue, we need to step up our game. We need more of our athletes to go undercover as informants, and we need to place them in direct interaction with their American competitors on a regular basis.”

“How will you manage that? The ISU is pretty committed to keeping American and Russian skaters as far away from each other as possible, outside of competitions.”

“I’ve had new identities drawn up for our skaters. They’ll be Canadian, from the town of London, Ontario. It’s just over the border from Michigan, where they will go to train with Marina Zueva. They’ll be at the same rink as her American teams, and Marina will give them the advantage at just the right time, leading them to victory over the US,” said Olga, pleased with herself for working up this plan on her own so quickly.

“Doesn’t Zueva work with…”

“Igor Shpilband, yes. He’s actually one of us - a double agent. We manufactured the stories about his defection; as soon as the USFSA and Skate Canada got word of it, they sent him straight to Arctic Edge to start coaching, preparing for the debut of ice dance at the Games in Innsbruck. They’re throwing money and resources at him left and right; they couldn’t have dreamed up a better narrative if they tried. They think they've got a Soviet defector training North America’s best up-and-coming teams to beat his former country on the world's stage. Except he and Marina will hold back _just enough_ to ensure that they can't actually win. If we play our cards right, _our_ anthem will be the one to sound through the arena at the first ever ice dancing Olympic medal ceremony.”

The coach furrowed his brow. “So what’s in it for our undercover Canadian team, then? They train, both in skating and deception, move thousands of miles away from home, cut off communications with their families, adopt new identities - just for a chance to do no better than the silver?” 

“You can’t look at their podium position in isolation - the context matters. A Canadian team winning the silver means the US ends up with the bronze, or ends up off the podium entirely. And you never know what could happen during competition, an injury or a deduction could very well put the Soviet Union out of position for gold. If a team competing under our flag can’t stand atop the podium, at least we can make sure it’s not the Americans up there, either.” Olga’s eyes flitted down to the rink again, where the boy still occupied the ice alone. He wouldn't be alone for much longer, though; soon he’d be hand in hand with an auburn-haired, green-eyed girl two years his junior.

“What will their new names be?” 

“Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir.”

 

* * *

 

“Tatiana? We’re ready for you now.”

The heavy oak door swings open, and the young ballerina gathers up her coat and her dance bag. She cautiously steps into the unfamiliar office and hears the door click definitively closed behind her. Two uncomfortable-looking chairs face an imposing desk; a young boy rises from one of them and turns to look at her. He appears to be around her age, maybe a bit older, and a few centimeters taller. He gives her a small, tentative smile, and nods his head at her.

“Hi,” he says, voice squeaking slightly. “I’m Sergei.”

She looks anywhere and everywhere but at him, having interacted with so few boys due to her education at the ballet academy. She’s still a few years away from any training that involves working with a partner.

“I’m Tatiana,” she whispers, more to her feet than to the boy in front of her.

“Tatiana, Sergei, sit down, please,” says the man behind the desk, gesturing at the chairs. Tatiana’s feet dangle a few centimeters above the floor. “My name is Pavel. I am the Minister of Sport for the Soviet Union. I have brought you here today to discuss a very important proposal with you. Part of my job is to identify young and talented Russians, like yourselves, who have potential to help our country through sporting competitions. Have you been following the success of our national hockey team, for example?” Tatiana looked down at her lap; her family didn't have a television. She glanced sideways at Sergei, who was nodding enthusiastically.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I stayed up late with my brothers watching the championships this year. And we went to the victory parade and I saw the players up close with my own eyes!”

“You know Arkady Chernyshev? I recruited him years ago, and installed him as the national team coach. I know how to spot talented people and put them in places to succeed. I saw that he had many gold medals in his future. Just like I think you do.” Pavel paused for a moment. “But not in hockey,” he continued.

Sergei’s face fell. “Huh?” 

“In figure skating. I understand that in addition to your ballet studies, you also skate on the side, Tatiana?” asked Pavel, finally addressing the young girl.

“Yes,” she answered softly, wringing her hands together in her lap.

“And Sergei, your coaches all say the strongest aspect of your game is your skating skills. They tell me your movement on the ice is better than anyone else’s. And so, in my expert opinion, I think there is real potential in you two competing as an ice dancing team."

Tatiana begins to quietly process what Pavel has told them; the inner workings of her brain are interrupted by Sergei’s sputtering next to her.

“I...what? How would this even work? Isn’t she doing ballet, like, a gazillion hours a day?" He jabs his thumb at Tatiana, waiting a beat to see if she interjects. She does not, so Sergei barrels on. "And I need to rest before my next league starts in August. My older brothers say I need to play all through the fall if I want a shot at being noticed by the national junior team recruiters!”

Pavel chews on the inside of his cheek, gathering his wits before he proceeds. “Ice dance is beginning to emerge as a real central tenet of figure skating. It’s like ballroom dancing on ice, and it’s going to make its debut at the Olympics in 1976. Because it’s still such a new discipline, nobody really knows who’s going to emerge as top of the field. We can get you in on the ground floor and set you up for success. But yes, you would both have to commit to it fully; you won’t have time for ballet, Tatiana, or hockey, Sergei, other than in a recreational capacity. Especially because in addition to your training, you'll have another job to do.” He pauses and looks intently at the boy and girl in front of him. Sergei’s face is a storm, questions passing across his eyes, his mouth opening and closing silently as he tries to begin a response, and then second-guesses himself. Tatiana, in stark contrast, is unreadable, her expression steady.

“Do you remember how I said earlier that I use sport to help our country?” Pavel continued, ready to share the aspect of this plan that would truly change the course of their lives. The hockey player and ballerina across the desk from him nodded, their movements somehow in perfect unison.


	2. A New Partnership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The skaters were used to early morning wake-up calls, but while their bodies had adjusted to practicing mohawks and and rockers at 3 AM, making an undercover international getaway at that hour was another matter entirely.

_Four Months Later - October 1971_

 

“Scott….Scott…. _SCOTT_!” An insistent voice rang out across the arena. Sergei surged forward across the ice, embarrassed; he still wasn’t used to being called by his Canadian name. His skating partner was waiting for him by the boards, along with Pavel.

“Scott, my boy! Good to see you,” the minister bellowed, clapping the young boy on the back. “I want you to know how proud everyone in our government is of you and Tessa here. We’re grateful for your service to our country and your commitment to our mission.” He drew two envelopes from deep in his coat pocket. “Now, I want you to bring these home to your families. This is just the first installment, we’ll be sending a messenger to your homes once a month going forward. And my direct phone line is printed inside there; your mothers can call my office if they need anything, anything at all, while you’re away.” Pavel smiled widely, pleased that once again his research had paid off. “Now, why don’t you two go put those away in your bags, and then show me what you’ve been working on?”

“C’mon, let’s go,” Sergei said gently, taking his partner’s hand in a loose grip. They skated to the other end of the ice toward the changing rooms.

Pavel turned to the two coaches beside him. “How is their training going? Both kinds, I mean?”

Yelena sighed, eyes flitting briefly to her partner, before addressing Pavel. “On the skating side, things are going well - they both have good fundamentals, sense of rhythm, and work ethic. It’s not a stretch to imagine that they’ll be competitive at the Olympic level when they reach senior status. And though the girl is a bit quiet and shy, she’s taking better to skating with a boy than many others do at her age. He’s sort of become a protective older brother to her; they trust one another. ”

Pavel nodded, looking pleased. “That’s very good news. Their relationship is at the heart of this, after all. They need to be able to rely on one another, on and off the ice. They’ll need to convince the world that they’re Canada’s sweethearts, just a couple of kids from Ontario trying to live their Olympic dreams. Creating that storyline will help keep any suspicious ISU agents off their trail.” 

Their other coach, Dmitriy, drew in a breath. “That’s the problem, actually. I’m not sure they’ll be able to keep anyone off their trail at all. I don’t know if they have what it takes off the ice. Their English is coming along okay, but the accents are a disaster; they’re basically Boris and Natasha. We’ve been drilling them on the basics of their new identities for two months now, but they keep slipping up, especially the boy. I have serious doubts that they’re up for the lying, the manipulation, the secrecy.” 

Pavel’s eyes bore into him. “Well, then you’ll just have to try harder, won’t you?”

 

~

 

Sergei exited the boys’ changing room, expecting Tatiana to emerge from the girls’ side around the same time. He paced in the hallway for a few minutes, waiting for her; she did not reappear. Their coaches were short on patience, and wouldn’t like them wasting valuable practice time.

Sergei walked back toward the girls’ changing room and pressed his ear to the door. He heard a faint sniffling on the other side of the door and knew it must be his partner in there crying; they trained in the dead of the night, completely isolated from other skaters, to keep their mission a secret. It couldn't possibly be anyone else on the other side of the door. He pushed the door open just a crack and saw her on the far side of the room, sitting on the floor with her back pressed against the wall, still clutching her envelope.

“Hey,” he said softly, trying to remember what Yelena had said about being sensitive to his partner’s more introverted nature. “Can I come sit with you for a minute?”

Her eyes met his, tentatively, and she nodded. Sergei pushed the door open a little more, just enough the slip inside the room. He crossed the room and sank down the floor next to her and mimicked her position exactly, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his right ankle over his left. He patted her hand gently.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” he whispered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tear escape down her cheek, her hand coming up to brush the droplet away. “We could tell Pavel that we’re out. He said so himself, the first day we met him, remember?” She gulped, trying to swallow her tears.

“You might be able to walk away - but I can’t. I have to do this,” she said, gesturing at the envelope in her right hand. Fresh tears sprung up in her eyes, threatening to spill over.

Sergei shifted his position on the floor to look at her. He tried to remember everything he had been learning about communicating with his partner. “You can tell me how you feel. No judgment, I promise. And I won’t tell anyone else if you don’t want me to.” He held her gaze, her bright green eyes still brimming with tears. He realized that she had really pretty eyes. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?

“I'm doing this to help my family,” she confessed. “My mom’s all alone, with me and my sisters. My dad, he…” she trailed off then, averting his eye contact. He squeezed her palm reassuringly, gave her an encouraging nod. “He picked up and left in the middle of the night a few months ago. He knew his draft number was coming up and...he fled. We have no idea where he is, and don’t expect to ever hear from him again. The authorities told us that if he tries to come back, he’ll be arrested and thrown in jail for desertion, probably for life. My mother is so ashamed. So, I need to do what I can to contribute to my family, to our society. To make sure my mom and sisters are going to be okay.” She took a shuddering, shallow breath, her heart thrumming against her chest.

Sergei took the envelope from her and tucked it into her bag, indicating that he understood. “It’s gonna be okay. I’m in this with you, Tatia-” He was cut off by her hand clamped firmly over his mouth. Her mood had shifted instantaneously, the oceans of tears in her eyes converting to a raging fire. He shifted his lips against her fingers, trying to break free.

“You need to stop calling me that. I’m called Tessa now,” she said, the name still sounding foreign to his ears. He nodded to indicate that he understood, but her hand remained frozen in place. He darted his tongue out, licking her palm.

“Ewww!” she shrieked, relinquishing her captivity of his mouth and wiping her palm against her leggings.

“You started it,” he teased, grinning at her.

“No, _you_ did,” she retorted, a smile playing at her lips. “I wouldn’t have had to do that if you hadn’t called me by the wrong name for the hundredth time this week. It’s not like I _wanted_ to do that. Gross.”

Sergei rose to his feet and held out his hands to her. She placed her palms in his and allowed him to pull her up to standing.

“I’m sorry I keep messing your name up. You just don’t feel like a ‘Tessa' to me,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Well, how about we try a nickname then? Then you can kind of ease into it,” she offered.

“A nickname. Huh. That’s a good idea. Sometimes I forget how smart you are, kiddo.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I hope you’re not suggesting ‘kiddo’ as my nickname?”

“Nah, that won’t really help me with my Tatiana problem anyway. How about I just call you ‘T’ for now? Or Tutu, because you love ballet, and it kind of sounds like ‘Tata’?”

“OK,” she agreed. “We can try those.” She’s stopped crying, but her breath was still coming unevenly.

He laid his hands on her forearms, feeling the drumbeat of her pulse beneath the pads of his fingers. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, then pushed the air out his lungs forcefully in his exhale. “Breathe with me,” he suggested, locking eyes with her again. When he nodded, she inhaled with him; he could feel the rushing blood at her pulse point begin to slow down. They repeated these breaths together a few times, until he finally felt her pulse come all the way down to its normal rate, her breath even and sure once again. He dropped his left arm from her right, and transitioned their hands into a dance hold on the other side.

“Ready, T?” he asked, trying out her new nickname for the first time.

She smiled up at him. “Yeah. Let’s get back out there. Together.”

He squeezed her palm in his own, and echoed, “Together.”

 

~

 

 

Yelena and Dmitriy met their pupils at the rink at 3 AM every day. For two hours they skated, practiced the footwork they’d need to have burned into their muscle memory to complete complex step sequences, marked out the progression of some basic lifts. They did drills from one end of the rink to the other to get used to the way their centers of gravity would shift when they eventually started doing spins, rotational lifts, and twizzles. They traced the basic steps of compulsory dances across the ice, memorizing small bits of the Dutch Waltz and the Rhythm Blues.

At 5 AM, the coaches dismissed their students for a ten minute break. When they returned to the ice, bundled up in sweatshirts and gloves, their folding chairs were waiting for them at center ice.

They took their seats next to one another, across from their coaches.

“Name?” Yelena asked pointedly, looking at the girl. 

“Tessa Jane McCormick Virtue,” she answered automatically, making confident eye contact with the coach.

“Hometown?”

“London, Ontario.”  
  
“Birth date?”  
  
“May 17, 1964.”

"So that makes you how old..."

"7 years old"

“Training location?”

“Kitchener-Waterloo Skating Club”

“How did you and Scott start skating together?”

“His aunt paired us up.”  
  
“And where did that happen?”  
  
“In Ilderton, where Scott lives.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“Three: an older sister, Jordan, and two older brothers, Kevin and Casey.”

“What do your parents do?” 

“They’re both lawyers.”

Yelena sat back in her chair. “Very good. Your answers were confident, no hesitation.”

Dmitriy nodded his agreement. “Your turn now,” he announced, turning to the boy. “Name?”

“Scott Patrick Moir,” he answered immediately.

“Hometown?”

“None other than Ilderton, Ontario!”

“Birth date?”  
  
“September 2, 1962.”

"So that makes you how old..."

"I just turned 9 last month."

“Training location?”

Shoot. He could never remember this one, it was such a funny sounding name.

“Scott?”

He rubbed his temples. “I’m sorry, I….I lost my train of thought.”

Dmitriy briefly entertained the thought of giving the boy a few minutes to collect himself, but decided he needed to see how close he could push him to the breaking point: “What’s your hockey team?”

“The Maple Leafs,” came the reply, a note of relief in his voice as he got back on the right track.

“Favorite player?”

“Aleksandr Maltsev”

“The center for Dynamo Moscow? Why would a young _Canadian_ boy like you follow Russian hockey?”

“I was supposed to say Dave Keon, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, you were,” replied Dmitriy icily. “This mission is doomed to fail if you can’t memorize the simplest of facts. The more time you spend in Canada, and eventually in Michigan, the more information you’re going to have to keep track of. We’re giving you the building blocks, the first chapter, but it's up to you after that to keep writing the story. And it has to be _convincing._ You can’t - ”

“I know!” he blurted out, interrupting his coach. “I know,” he says again, more calmly this time. “It’s just, I’m Russian! It’s super weird pretending to _not_ be Russian. I’m really trying.”

“Well, try harder.”

Sergei felt Tatiana stand up next to him. “We’ll be right back,” she intoned, grabbing her partner’s hand and leading him across the ice to the safety of the changing rooms.

“How do you do that so well?” he inquired once they were safely out of earshot of their coaches.

“Do what?” she replied, slipping on her skate guards on and taking a swig of water.

“Answer those questions so easily. I always slip up and respond with something totally out of character. And I can never remember the name of the place we’re supposed to be training at!”

She shrugged, passing him his skate guards. “I just come up with little tricks to remember all the right answers. Like the training one, that’s easy. I just think if you drink too much water in the kitchen, you’ll have to go to the loo!”

Sergei stared at her, baffled. “What?”

She sighed, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Kitchen sounds a lot like ‘Kitchener’. And then ‘Water’ and ‘Loo,” well, that should be self explanatory.”

“No, I get that part, what I don’t get is how you figured out that little scheme in the first place.”

“Didn’t you ever used mnemonic devices in school to help you remember something? Like the order of the planets, or the colors of the rainbow?”

“Isn’t mnemonic a disease or something?”

“That’s pneumonia, Scott.”

“Nothing gets by you, Tutu.” He gave her a playful punch on the shoulder as he said it.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, then held out her hand. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” he replied, taking his hand in hers. “Let’s get back out there. Together?”

“Together,” she repeated.

 

* * *

 

_March 1973_

 

“Are you ready?” Yelena called out to her skaters, taking her seat in the folding chair at center ice.  

“Almost!” the boy yelled out in response. Last week he had gone to the library and found the volume of the Encyclopedia for “C,” flipping the pages until he found the entry on Canada. He had gazed upon the maple leaf that adorned the first page of the section. After asking the librarian for a piece of paper and a pencil, he had returned to the thick volume, making a freehand drawing of the symbol. He had known it was a little lopsided, but he’d keep practicing. He had folded up his drawing and put it in his skate bag, waiting for this moment. Now, he withdrew the piece of paper from its zippered compartment and attached it to the front of his shirt with a few pins. He exited the changing room and found his partner waiting for him at the boards. Silently, she let him guide her hand into a dance hold, and they skated together toward center ice.

Today, they faced not only Yelena and Dmitriy, but Pavel and a committee of his deputy ministers.

The skaters sat in their designated chairs. Without introduction or fanfare, their coaches launched into their usual interrogation.

“What are your names?

“I’m Tessa Jane McCormick Virtue,” she began.

“And I’m Scott Patrick Moir,” he finished.

“Where are you from?”

“Well, I’m from Ilderton, a tiny town outside of London, which is where Tessa lives.”

“When did you two start skating together?”

  
“Well, it’s kind of a funny story. Scott’s aunt was my coach, actually, and when I was 7 and he was 9, she just put us together one day, as a trial.”

“Yeah, she was trying me out with like, every girl at the rink at that time, trying to find a good fit. T and I had just the right height difference so she thought she’d give it a shot. And it just stuck, you know?”

“I had just gotten an acceptance to the Royal Ballet School, but I promised Scott I’d skate with him the next season, so I turned it down.

“We’re just happy to be learning so much and to be working with a great team of coaches at Kitchener-Waterloo,” he finished, glancing sideways at her. She smiled at him, nodding encouragingly.

“Is it difficult to have to travel back and forth so much to train?”

“Not really. We usually nap in the backseat on the way to the rink, so it’s not so bad. We’re very grateful that our parents and families are so supportive of our skating,” came her perfectly rehearsed answer.

“Do you have any goals for the year? For the future?” 

“We just want to push ourselves to skate as well as we can, I think. I know we’re just starting out, but we’d like to make it to the Olympics someday,” she began, looking over at her partner.

“Yeah, I think Tessa said it right. It would be such an honour to represent Canada at the Games. If we win, I’ll be singing ‘O, Canada’ on the podium louder than anyone else,” he finished, gesturing at the maple leaf drawing pinned to his chest.

“What do you do for fun?”

“I still like to practice ballet from time to time. It helps me relax. I also really like fashion, and listening to Neil Young records.”

“Well I’m a huge hockey fan - root for the Maple Leafs, obviously. Hopefully we’ll have a better season next year, eh?”

Yelena and Dmitriy turned to look at Pavel, who had moved from his seat in the stands to lean against the boards. He gestures for Scott and Tessa to skate over to him. The rink is silent, save for the sound of their blades cutting into the ice, as they meet him at the boards. He looks down at their hands, still joined in a dance hold, and then straight into their eyes, Tessa first, then Scott. At last, he opens his mouth to speak. 

“You’re ready.”

 

~

 

The skaters were used to early morning wake-up calls, but while their bodies had adjusted to practicing mohawks and rockers at 3 AM, making an undercover international getaway at that hour was another matter entirely. 

They met at the rink, bidding their families tearful goodbyes, before piling into the backseat of Yelena’s car. She drove them northwest, passing by St. Petersburg at high noon. Their jaws dropped as the car whizzed past the magnificent mosaics and onion-domes of the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood, and the Winter Palace along the Neva River. After another two and a half hours, they reached Russia’s border with Finland. The spot was deserted, save for a guard post; as they had been instructed, they grabbed their bags and exited Yelena’s back seat.

The border agent beckoned them forward, asking for their documents. They exchanged a silent look as they pulled out their new Canadian passports and presented them to the agent. He opened them both up to the first page with one hand; with the other, he pulled out a stamp and an ink pad. He rolled the rubber back and forth across the dark blue canvas, and brought the stamp down on their passports in quick succession, with two definitive thwacks.

The agent nodded to them and handed them back their passports, simultaneously raising the gate barrier and gesturing them to walk through.

His hand found hers, and looking over their shoulders, they left Russia, not knowing if they would ever see her again. They realized only at that moment that Yelena had gone, leaving them with only one another.

 

~

 

They weren’t alone for long, for another car had been waiting on the Finnish side of the border to take them to the Helsinki airport. Exhausted, they took their spots in the backseat, their new passports burning holes in their pockets.

“I guess we’re officially Tessa and Scott now,” he said, breaking the silence between them that had begun when they rolled up to the border in Yelena's car.

“Yep,” she replied nervously, crossing her right leg over her left and jiggling her ankle.

“Do you want me to quiz you?” he asked earnestly, willing to do whatever his partner needed in this moment. He knew she was scared.

“No, that’s okay. Uh….can you just hold my hand and do that thing where you get our breathing to match up?” She closed her eyes, letting her head rest gently against the seat.

“Sure thing, Tutu,” he answered, grasping her forearm in his hand and running his fingers in a small circle on her wrist. He could hear her pulse racing, rivaled only by the sound of his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

He inhaled deeply as he gently squeezed her arm, willing her to breathe along with him.

“Inhale….exhale….inhale….exhale. Just keep following me, T. Inhale...exhale…”

Soon Scott felt Tessa’s breathing become much softer; her hand went quiet beneath his. Her body tilted toward him, and he scooted closer to her so that her head landed on his shoulder.

 “It’s okay, Tutu. Just rest,” he whispered, not even sure she could hear him. He was just closing his own eyes when he felt her move her arm from underneath his hand, readjusting so their hands were touching in a loose dance hold.

“Thanks, Scott,” she mumbled, and it was the last thing he heard before falling into a deep sleep.

 

~

 

They were greeted at the Helsinki airport by an official from Skate Canada, who was going to fly with them first to Toronto and then onto London. Tessa and Scott both knew that he was really an undercover Russian operative, tasked with making sure they were admitted into Canada without any issues.

They approached passport control with their chaperone, the border agent gesturing wordlessly at them to hand over their passports and tickets. This was the first real test of their new identities, since the man at the Russian-Finnish border had also been a Russian plant. The airport agent examined the Skate Canada official’s with just a cursory glance, stamping it almost immediately to allow for exit from Finland. He slid the man’s documents back under the window, and turned his attention to the remaining passports in front of him. He held one open at eye level, eyes traveling from the photo on the page to the girl standing before him. “What’s your name, young lady?” he asked, flicking through the empty pages of her freshly printed passport.

“Tessa Jane McCormick Virtue,” she replied.

"How old are you?"

"I'll be 9 next month."

“And what brought you to Finland on this trip?”

“We were at a figure skating competition. My skating partner, Scott, and I, we’re hoping to be able to compete at the junior level in a couple of years.” She keeps her gaze fixed on the agent ahead of her, desperately hoping that he couldn’t tell she was lying.

“And your name, young man?”

“Scott Patrick Moir.”

"How old are you?"

"Ten years old, sir."

“And where do you train in ice skating, Mr. Moir?”

“Up until now we’ve been at Ilderton Skating Club. But we’re making the switch to Kitchener-Waterloo this summer.”

The agent’s eyes flicked down to the passports, then up again at Tessa and Scott standing in front of him.

They heard, for the second time that day, the two successive thwacks of the stamps marking their passport pages. The agent slid their passports and tickets under the grille; Scott reached forward to grab them both and handed Tessa hers with a smile.

“Have a safe flight. You will be boarding soon,” said the agent, gesturing for them to pass through the turnstile.

“Thank you, sir,” said their chaperone, herding them past the booth as a disembodied voice boomed over the PA system:

“ _Flight 1417 to Toronto is now boarding at Gate 10. All passengers on Flight 1417 to Toronto should proceed to the gate.”_

“You ready, kiddo?” Scott asked, reaching out for his partner’s hand.

“I…” she started, her voice dying in her throat. She opened her mouth to start again, but ultimately closed it and simply nodded her head.

Scott led Tessa by the hand up to the boarding agent, their chaperone taking up the rear of the party. The agent took their tickets and scanned them at a tabletop machine, which made a _beedoop_  sound as it displayed their names on a tiny screen: “Moir, Scott, seat 18A; Virtue, Tessa, seat 18B”.

“Welcome aboard!” exclaimed the agent, handing them back their tickets and sending them down the jetway.

Tessa and Scott were exhausted from an entire day of travel, and practically stumbled onto the plane. Their eyes scanned the jet, taking in the expansive aisles, the flight attendants in matching uniforms, the well-dressed passengers in first class. They headed down the aisle and found their seats, a window and middle seat just past the barrier for business class.

“You can take the window seat first, Tutu, so you can see the takeoff. But I’ll wanna switch at some point so I can see the clouds.”

“Thanks, Scott, that’s really nice of you” she replied, smiling at him for the first time all day. Scott helped her buckle her seatbelt first, and then he did his own. Tessa was already staring intently out the window.

“There’s nothing to see yet, you know. We’re still on the ground,” he teased gently.

“I know! But you can see the other planes take off and land from here,” she retorted, as a bright red jet went roaring past them and into the sky. He leaned over her to get a good view; their awed faces reflected back at them in the dirty window.

“F _olks, this is your captain speaking, and it’ll be my pleasure to fly you to Toronto tonight. We’ve been cleared for takeoff, so please fasten your seatbelts so we can get off the ground on time!”_

The plane backed out of the gate, Scott and Tessa’s faces still glued to the window. They felt shaking beneath their feet as the engine revved up and the plane began to move forward. The plane barreled down the runway picking up speed, Tessa using all her strength to keep herself plastered to the back of her seat, until the jet’s front wheels lifted off the ground and sent them gracefully into the sky. Tessa and Scott watched as the massive buildings surrounding the airport became miniature beneath them, the trees transforming into broccoli forests. The plane continued its upward climb, breaking through the clouds; when the plane leveled off, Tessa and Scott could see nothing but the horizon ahead of them.

“ _Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our cruising altitude of 35,000 feet. You are now free to move about the cabin. Our in-flight team will be stopping by your seats shortly to offer you complimentary beverages.”_

“Hey, T, is it okay if we switch seats now?” pleaded Scott, eager to get his turn next to the window.

“Oh, sure. Here, I’ll unbuckle and stand up, and you can pick up the armrest and scoot over into this seat. And then I’ll take your seat,” she replied, perfectly spelling out the choreography.

“Copy that, partner,” said Scott in a corny accent, making Tessa giggle as she fumbled with the clasp of the seatbelt. Tessa felt Scott slide into her space, and he tapped her on the leg to indicate that she could move over and take the middle seat now. Scott was quickly enraptured by the scene outside the window.

“Hey, Scott?” Tessa ventured, not wanting to disturb him.

“Mhm? What’s up, kiddo?”

“I think I want to try to sleep for a bit. Can I rest my head on your shoulder?”

“Of course, Tutu. We’ve got plenty of space, just lean against me,” he responds, patting the space just below his shoulder and above his heart. Tessa settles in and closes her eyes, content to hear his pulse beating in her ears. Unconsciously, she slows down her breathing to match his.

“You good, Tessa?”

“Yeah, I’m really comfortable. Thanks, Scott.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he whispered. “How are you feeling about today?”

“Oh.” Tessa wasn’t sure how to answer Scott’s question, because she didn’t know how she felt just yet. She debated whether she should tell Scott this; would he think she was weird, or did her perhaps feel the same way? She thought back to their training, to the day Yelena had told them that in order to be able to lie to everyone else, they had to be completely truthful with one another.

“I’m not sure I know how I feel yet,” she began, her eyes flicking up to him.

“It’s OK, T, you can tell me how you feel. No judgment, remember?”

“I’m...scared. But also, excited? I think I feel a little guilty about feeling excited. But mostly, I’m looking forward to skating with you. To winning competitions and, eventually, gold medals.”

“Me too, T,” he replied, the smile coming through in his voice. “I can’t wait to skate with you, too. But now get some rest. We have another long day ahead tomorrow.”

 “Thanks, Scott.”

“You said that already.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she whispered.

“Whatever’s ahead, we’ll do it together.”

“Together,” she echoed, closing her eyes and relaxing into his chest. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. She followed his rhythm until their synced breathing lulled her to sleep.

 

~

 

Tessa woke with a start, her head still pressed to Scott’s chest. He had fallen asleep too, and she shook his leg to rouse him from his sleep. Outside their window, they could see twinkling lights below them, getting closer with each passing second.

“ _Folks, this is the captain from the flight deck. We’re just outside Toronto and will be making our final descent in just a minute. Please take a moment to check the seat back pockets in front of you and gather up any personal belongings. Our flight crew will come through the cabin for any items you wish to discard before deplaning. From all of us here on Flight 1417, we thank you for flying with us today.”_

“Can you see OK, Tutu?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, taking in the city below them. The plane pitched forward and dove; Tessa’s stomach jumped up into her throat. In the blink of an eye, she could feel the plane leveling out, could see the runway just outside the window. The plane’s front wheels hit the ground with a thud, and the jet roared forward as the captain put on the brakes.

  _“Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our destination. Bienvenue au Canada. Welcome to Canada!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone who's reading along so far! 
> 
> Next up: Tessa and Scott adjust to life in Canada and move to Kitchener-Waterloo.


End file.
